Remnant: Stage of the Apocalypse
by DLI-VUH
Summary: The men of Vale's 14th Line Infantry Regiment were just students when the war began. With the world in ruins and the kingdoms of Remnant scrambling for power, even these schoolchildren were swept into a conflict that covered the globe and shaped a generation. This is the story of the Great War from the men and women who fought in the bloodiest conflict in Remnant's history.
1. Prologue

Remnant: The Stage of the Apocalypse

 **Prologue**

It was good, I think: this life I've had. Looking back, it almost seemed as though I'd never survive what I did. And yet here: in this hospital room overlooking the port, all the struggle and toil; the death and birth of loved ones, even nations, seemed entirely a tiny price to pay to bring back some semblance of peace and normality into our once shattered lives. I've sure paid a price. So did the nation. And the world. Not the deepest oceans or the highest peaks were unaffected by the conflagration that was the "Great" War. Even this building had to pay a price, clawing back the normalcy of a daily life from the disaster of war in its own struggle. As its doors closed as a school and it sent its last children off to a distant and already-forgotten battlefield, it reopened last year as a hospital for the dying and the not-quite-alive. Men like me.

It's almost been half a century that we'd gathered in the plaza right below my window to take roll and march off to the east. Half a century since Portsmouth Academy closed its doors as her final students sang her graduation song and picked up their standard-issue swords. Half a century since I'd known Vale as my home. And yet amid the endless carnage and chronic cruelty of that war, rays of hope emerged. I should know, there was one climbing on me right now.

"You were named after your great-grandfather, did you know that, little one?" I asked, watching my grandson struggle to gain a foothold on my bed. A hospital bed wasn't home, per se, but that word had lost meaning so many years ago. Now, at the end of my life, the least of pleasures I could appreciate were the family that was left. I followed him with my eyes as he climbed next to me and put his body around mine; as his fingers grasped at whatever anchor point they could find; as his eyes met mine, he reminded me so much of my wife, now long gone. Reaching out to pet his head, even his hair resembled hers, curly and bright yellow, like the light of the golden sun, glistening off a majestic sword on a dusty and windswept desert far to the west – the final shining light to banish the darkness of that time.

"Where is he?" my grandson asked, nuzzling his face into the blanket.

"He's been gone for a long while now. Since the war. But you certainly have his spark, I'll tell you that," I said, laughing.

"You fight in the war, too? Right grandpa?"

"That's right. So did my friends. We all did, on both sides."

My grandson cocked his head, not quite understanding. "You fought your friends?" he asked me, as if I'd committed some sort of sin.

"Well, they weren't my friends at the time, but yes."

"I couldn't fight my friends at school," he said. "You must've been in a big, big, _big_ argument, huh?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

I looked away to cough and toward the sunset over the Sea of Storms. The sun gently said goodbye to Vale, sinking below the horizon as its glow faded into twilight. From the way the world below my window carried on, I could tell there was a tranquility to this city, so far removed in time and space from the worries of conflict and Grimm that even the fishermen, venturing outward into the Manifold Abyss, couldn't begin to comprehend how precious this moment was. So elusive were times like these that, even in the years since the war, I'd felt as if I'd never escape. I'm glad to be proven wrong – to see the world my father wished for.

Only my grandson's hand grabbing at my face and a knock at the door interrupted me.

"Enter," I said. Rasping, really – even after so many years, raw dust exposure took its toll.

Rather than my son, a nurse slipped in carrying a clipboard, surveying my body and face and taking notes. She herself was younger than my son, probably a girl no older than 20, I'd say: part of a no-nonsense generation that damn near starved itself working to correct the mistakes of the past and forge an unstained future. Whether or not they're succeeding is up for debate. Even so, to see her here – to see her smile, so disarming and so warm – was a testament to what we'd fought for. She reached out to touch my forehead, continuing to take notes before her eyes caught mine. She stopped writing then, looking between my grandson and me. I think she knew as much as I did that, were it not for him, I'd have given up on breathing long ago and be at peace with the dust hardening in my lungs. She set aside her notes and took a knee, eyeing him like an expectant mother eyes a newborn – waiting for her own.

"You have a very handsome grandson, Mr. Xiao Long," she said, tenderly brushing his hair. "What's his name?"

I took her hand in mine, resting together on my grandson's head as his eyes traveled between us, speaking their own language of love and appreciation. A language known only by those who would never again see the remnants of the Great War.

"His name is Taiyang."


	2. Chapter 1: The Student, The Soldier

Remnant: Stage of the Apocalypse

 **Chapter One**

The Student, The Soldier

I was just a child when the world came to an end. We all were, really. I remember how we sat on the pier in those lazy days peering out into the port district, watching the trade ships sail into harbor and wishing for adventure. I remember how we used to run down to the docks after school to harass the apprentice fishermen until getting chased off by the local sheriff, a stern but well-meaning fellow, always warning us to continue our studies if we wanted a nice life in the capital. I remember the windswept leaves of Forever Fall making their way through the streets, grazing our ankles as we read in the courtyard of the royal library. I remember all these things, a requiem to the silent days of our final summer.

The end of that time – and the beginning of a new, bloodier era – was already well known, or at least, at the forefront of everyone's minds. The preachers in central park, barking on about the end of days and the great conflict of empires, fanned the fears of the citizens. Forgotten news stories of vandalism in Valen villages on the east coast became gripping headlines of Mistralian abuse against our people. I'd tried to bury myself in the antics of my friends and, on occasion, my studies, but each new week brought more fantastic stories from the east, as if a great wheel had begun to turn, shifting our course as a nation. I suppose the last straw had been when the muckrakers erected a sign outside the Imperial Gardens, almost as tall as the royal gate itself, and painted the news that everyone had come to fear, but expect nonetheless: "War declared! Forts overrun! Mistral takes the Indigo Line!"

And that was it. Had I known then what chronic and sustained cruelty that would endure for almost ten years, perhaps I would have run, or perhaps not. War was an abstract idea, then: nothing more to us than flashy uniforms, sharp swords, and a school field trip to the National Armory. For us, to make a name for ourselves and find meaning outside of our little perch in Vale, was more important than whatever unknowns faced us just beyond the mountain range. The east was a mythical place, but also far, far away.

A group of soldiers from the Royal Garrison came to the school and asked for every student above the age of sixteen. Aside from Emmanuel's brother, Nicholas, our class was spared from the militia's draft because of our tender age. The sullen grunts placed their arms around his shoulders and told him he'd fight so we wouldn't have to – that the war would be over by this time next year and he could see us again soon, maybe even graduate with us. He himself looked pale, as if possessed by the Grimm, the veins around his mouth visible as he left the classroom. Our teacher had us raise our hands in a somber salute. Outside, the view of the port was obstructed as they loaded the upperclassmen into carts to ride into a training ground deep in the forest.

Emmanuel gripped my arm, his face firmly against the glass. "My father's been gone all my life, and now my brother, too. It's only me now," he said. He wasn't speaking to me in particular, but airing the thoughts in his head must have brought clarity of the situation to him. I can't say I blamed him for his apprehension. Rumors traveled west faster than the troops traveled east. Our boys got beat. Bad.

As the cavalcade pulled away, I saw a girl in a red overcoat sitting on the edge of the final wagon. She held a rosebud firmly in her hand before crushing it and letting the petals float away in the coastal breeze. One of them landed by the windowsill where our class had gathered. Our eyes met, only briefly, before she turned away, revealing a head of stunning and lengthy black hair, tinged with red, as if soaking up whatever remained of the evening twilight. I will never forget this.

Our lives, which had been so dominated by days of study and play, had been upended almost overnight. While street dancers still performed in the central square and musicians held concerts in our school hall, the air around them had changed. A missed step here, an off-key note there – the heady feeling of uncertainty of what was to come lingered over our collective heads like a storm cloud ready to burst. Our local sheriff disappeared to fight in the war and was replaced by MPs. And the emptiness of Nicholas's desk in our class haunted our lives. The sky itself grew heavy and gray as winter drew near, heralding what was to come.

The war came home soon enough, slowly at first and then all at once: the way the store clerks stopped smiling when the postmen brought newspapers to their businesses; the way that second-helpings became banned in the cafeteria, before being replaced entirely by ration cards; the way my father lingered in my doorframe at night, looking at me as if to say something but hiding his face in the shadows. Time seemed frozen in that space for a while, and though we'd pray for it to end, for a sense of normality to return, somehow I knew that secretly we all hoped it would stay like that forever, if only to buy ourselves time.

Months passed by before Emmanuel brought a letter from his brother to school. Our group of friends, cut thin by repeated visits by the local militia, had withered to a handful of us bunching around the window, clamoring for light. He cleared his throat in an effort to remain composed before reading it aloud. Though it was lunchtime, and other students off at their own desks, the room fell silent as if he were at the lectern giving class. All eyes were fixated on us: our own little news service from the front.

 _"My dearest brother,_ " it began. _"On our way to the east coast, we passed through the village where mother was born. My captain let us stay at the inn and tavern to rest after several days of hard marching. When I went to order food, I caught the eye of a local singer sitting alone at the bar – Marlene, I think her name was – and she sang a song she said would help me through this war. Legend says it will bring us good luck, fortune, and the favor of the gods. She called over a friend of hers to play the guitar before commanding the room. By some twist of fate, it was our mother's favorite song. The song she used to play to us at the end of every day. I cried, then, Emm. I cried right there on the bar because I realized just how much I've missed you and mother these past months. I miss Erick and Robb and Nolan, too, and everyone else at school. When we leave this place, we'll be within a week's march of the enemy lines on the Zahara Peninsula, so I don't think I'll be able to write to you again until after we've met the enemy. I hope that song brings me luck in battle, baby brother. I love you. See you soon._

 _Your brother, Corporal of the Fifth Guards, E Company,_

 _Nicholas Arc."_

A silent teardrop fell from Emmanuel's face onto the letter, itself worn from travel. I placed my hand on his shoulder and wept myself. We all did in those final days. Soon, Vale would become a distant memory that I'd only know in days long past.

I got my draft letter two weeks after my 16th birthday.

A high-ranking officer from the royal garrison paraded in front of us as we stood in what was supposed to be a military formation. From the corner of my eye, I could see the window that we'd gathered and gazed from for so long, now so seemingly far out of reach. I shut my eyes.

"I am Major Lagune, Adjutant Commander of the First Guards, and from this point onward, you will be under my care. You will train to be soldiers for His Majesty's Government, protecting everyone you know and love and our way of life. Those of you from combat schools will already know the sacred honor it is to protect our free nation, and those of you _not_ from combat schools," he said. Even with my eyes closed I could feel his gaze burning in the general direction of me and my friends. "I expect you to keep up every step of the way. The road ahead with be long. It will be arduous. It will test you. But make no mistake, by this time next year, we will be victorious and the freedom of our people to live in peace – to live free – will be secure. Now, First Guards, begin roll call!"

As I opened my eyes, I could see the shadows of soldiers snapping to attention and rendering a salute. A solemn soldier – I believe his rank was sergeant – came over with a list of names to inspect us.

"Robert Long?"

"Here."

"14th Line Infantry Regiment. That cart over there," the sergeant said, pointing in the general direction of the wagon-train as Robb turned and smiled at us before running off.

"Erick Winchester?"

"Here, sir!"

"I'm not a sir. 14th Line Infantry. Same cart."

"Emmanuel Arc?"

"H-here."

"You're going to have to be more confident than that, boy. 14th Line Infantry."

I waved goodbye to Emmanuel as he ran towards our friends, already inside their cart and safe against the bristling winter winds coming from the sea. Only a few more left until he came to me.

"Chester O-oblock?"

"It's Oobleck, sir."

"You kids need to know your sirs. Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time for that in training. You're going to the 14th Line Infantry. Same cart," the sergeant said. As he finally came to me, the sergeant looked me up and down, as if to appraise me. I'm not sure if it was my mass or my mettle he was looking for, but he gave a satisfied grunt and brought up the list of names once more. "Well, I guess you're Yinghao Xiao?"

I nodded my head, only slightly sheepishly, as if that wasn't the only answer to that question.

"Right, then. First Royal Dragoons. Last wagon."

I stood there, frozen in place and looked over to the rest of my friends in the middle of the wagon-train. Where would they go? Would I, no, when would I see them again? If they were all assigned together, would they fight together? Would I be left behind? Why wasn't I with them? _Why_?

"Come on, lad. Off you go," the sergeant said. He grabbed my arm and led me to the last cart, leaving me as he returned to his duties in the great formation of kids. I'm not sure if my friends were aware of my absence from their cart yet, as I was painfully aware of theirs, but I trusted they'd be fine as long as they had each other. Me, on the other hand? I looked around and saw no one else assigned to my unit. I sighed as I sat down on the edge, kicking my feet at the paved stone beneath me. Come to think of it, wasn't that girl alone in the back cart, as well?

I stretched, preparing my body to fall backwards onto the wood. Putting my hands out to brace myself, I felt a crinkling _snap_ on the inside of the cart, right underneath my hand, next to the latch that released the seats from the siding. I pinched at it and held the object – a crimson flake disintegrating into motes of dust – to my face. A dead rose petal, still discernible from the detritus of past recruits, evidence of someone I'd see at my unit. Evidence of _her_. I couldn't help but smile, if only faintly, and look up toward the sky.

Someday soon, I know, I'll come back. And I'll come back with all of you, I swear it. I held the rose petal to my chest and let it float away. The soldiers barked some commands and the horses began to pull the wagons away. As the din of the city faded and cobblestone gave way to dirt trails, so too did the light give way to the darkness. The stars themselves, gently gleaming in the night, poked in and out through barely visible haze. I found comfort in those stars, still shining despite the best effort of the clouds to blot them out – despite the war descending darkness upon our lands. I wondered where this war would lead me, but more than that, what it would lead me to do. Like my father, I fell asleep with a furrowed brow.

I wouldn't see Vale again until the war's end.


	3. Chapter 2: The Miner

Disclaimer: For clarification purposes, this fanfic takes place within the world of RWBY but has very little character or developmental overlap with the actual show (read: none of teams RWBY, JNPR, etc. will appear whatsoever). An overwhelming majority of characters are quasi-original and the "World of Remnant" videos would be the closest referential canon for the heavy majority of this fic. If that interests you, feel free to continue reading. If you're on the fence about the idea, I invite you to try this out with me. And if you're looking for specific ships or characters, well, it might be a good idea to move on. This fic is meant to explore the wider world of Remnant, its history, and its effects on the current RWBY canon. As with all RWBY fanfics, this work is intellectual property of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC.

Remnant: Stage of the Apocalypse

 **Chapter Two**

The Miner

One advantage of Mantlese military uniforms? They were warm. At least, that's what the brass had said. Out on the deck of a naval transport in the middle of the Northern Ocean, however, Herman Schnee still had to tuck his hands under his armpits, shivering all the while. The stark white of his overcoat a mere shade lighter than the crest of the waves battering the ship.

"Private Schnee!" a voice barked from behind. Herman immediately came to attention.

"Yes sir!"

"Do you see anyone else on the deck with their hands tucked away? Get yourself together and act like a soldier!"

"Yes sir!" he replied, staying at attention long enough until he was confident that whoever the voice belonged to had moved along on their rounds.

It was true that there were hundreds of Mantlese soldiers on this transport, all at various points in their daily regimen. No doubt a few hundred were asleep in the bay, a few hundred more in the mess, and here he was, on the deck waiting for his turn to head below to finally sleep. It was a space-efficient way of sending an entire regiment across the sea on a single ship, if only considerations for quality-of-life were taken out of the equation. Insofar as Herman Schnee was concerned, Mantle might as well have sent them over in rafts.

After the official outbreak of hostilities, Mantle had pledged an entire army corps to Mistral's aid: a division was being sent to Anima to defend precious dust production in the cold, northern reaches of the continent's extreme hinterlands, and three more were being sent to Sanus's eastern seaboard to defend Mistral's newly claimed territories. It was in this invasion force that Private Schnee found himself embedded – thirty thousand men sent to guard villagers from Vale's colonial overreach. At least, that was the official accounting. One more secret division was also being sent to Sanus: to oversee the slave labor necessary to extract the dust from the highly coveted Indigo Line. Or, as Mantle had termed them, "military engineers".

"It's a bit colder out here than in the mines, isn't it?"

Herman looked around before noticing the source of the question: another soldier in his platoon, a full head shorter than he was, with thick blonde hair and a scruff beard. The scars on his face told him that the man was a veteran soldier of the Mantlese Army – a far cry from most of the conscripts on the ship, himself included.

"How did you know I worked in the mines?" Herman asked, his head askance.

"Your hands, lad. They're covered in calluses. Now, we don't have forests up in Mantle so you can't be a woodworker; and your face isn't locked in a permanent furrow, so you don't have to deal with a bellows and furnace all day long, which means you aren't a blacksmith either. My guess: you work in the dust mines. And judging by the shiver, you don't come from the coast, or you'd be used to these winds. I'd say you're farther inland – you're from Alsius, aren't you?"

Herman didn't say anything. Or, at least his mouth didn't. His facial muscles did all the talking for him, betraying him all at once.

"I knew it," the man said with a laugh. "I'm Sergeant Soleil. I believe you're a soldier in my platoon, though given how fast we left the port, I never got a chance to introduce myself. Good to meet you, son."

Herman shook the sergeant's hand and tried to go back to the position of attention, but he kept glancing at Soleil through the corner of his eye. Occasionally, the wind swept a tuft of his snowy hair in front of him, blocking his vision. This would be a long voyage.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, son?"

"How did you do that? Figure that all out, I mean."

"Survival, son. Survival."

"What do you mean by that?" Herman asked.

The sergeant grunted, clearing his throat. "Surely you know that Mantle sends out expeditions all over Remnant. Mostly to the civilized realm of Mistral and the mostly-peopled continent of Anima, but occasionally to the sands of Vacuo and other lands as well. Sure, you might be safe and well-protected in a port city, but as soon as you venture off the roads and your men start getting nervous – thinking they're lost or complaining they're hungry, well," he veered off, looking sideways, his eyes piercing a soldier a few ranks ahead of them who had already begun to grasp their stomach in hunger pains.

"The Grimm." Herman said.

"Precisely. You can tell a lot about an enemy, even if they aren't there, just by looking at your surroundings. And for friends," he said, jabbing Herman in the side, making the young private wince. "Well, you can tell damn near anything about them. You'll understand when you have to lead men one day, lad. You've got the build for a fine soldier. A damn shame you're slaving away in those mines – I could've used a man like you on my last voyage."

"And where was that, sergeant?"

"Right where we're heading now, lad," he said, looking forward toward the bow. Past the crest of the sea and the cold howling of the wind, he scanned for a distant shore. "The Zahara Peninsula on the eastern shore of Sanus. Fertile fields, untapped fisheries, and a type of dust crystal I've never seen before – all protected by the Great Range splitting eastern Sanus in two."

Herman cocked his head aside again, visibly confused. "But I thought the only thing across this ocean was Valen territory?"

"It was, but the Mistralian Empire has laid claim to the Zahara Peninsula and the Kite Islands. I can't believe it myself, but somehow those people have settled every corner of Anima. After I came back with my report, you wouldn't believe how fast the government in Mistral sent boats over the sea to Sanus. And if it weren't for my report, we wouldn't be so eager to send an entire corps halfway around the world, either.

"You see, between the rolling hills of the Zahara Peninsula and the Great Range is a valley. We called it the Indigo Line, after the purple crystals that naturally shot out of the ground there. Turns out they weren't buried so much as they were held back by the earth."

"What do you mean by held back?" Herman asked.

"They began to float when we dug them out of the ground," the sergeant said. A grin poked out from his beard. Herman wasn't sure how far on the spectrum between pride and hubris Soleil's smile represented, but it was quite clear the man understood the impact of what he found there. "Turns out we discovered a brand new, naturally-occurring form of dust. You could fill a wagon-train with the stuff and the horses would barely know they're pulling anything at all."

"That – that's not possible. I've studied dust for years and I've never seen-"

The sergeant cut Herman off, bringing a finger to his mouth. The smile disappeared. "I'm not joking around, son. It's possible. I've seen it. It's going to change the world."

So that was it, then? Dust that could negate gravity itself? To the citizens of Vale, their decision to invade might seem pointlessly trivial. To secure dust reserves in a distant land not your own was the territory of tyrants and warmongers, he was sure they must have thought. Herman knew – and every sailor and soldier on this transport would surely agree – that anything to avert another tragedy like ten years ago was worth the cost. If they could be weightless – no, if they could _fly_ – then they could take the fight to the Grimm. With Mantle's military, they would win. This was a fight worth having.

He looked away from the sergeant toward the distant horizon. On land, the notions of borders, of extracting and refining dust, of defending against the creatures of Grimm – all seemed attainable and made easy by the beneficence of heaven and the industry of man. Out here on the sea, however, all ideals of avarice came to a head with the steady drumbeat of the waves against steel and the twinkling of the evening light dancing off the endless sea, the reflection of the sky's peace hid whatever horrors lurked below. A squadron of naval ironclads protected them on either flank from any seaborne Grimm, but that was small comfort to Herman. To him, the entire vast ocean might as well be their lair. The sooner he got off this ship, the better.

"I wonder if it had been on our soil, if things would be different," Herman said at last. "If they would come to our shore."

The sergeant looked up at him, drawing in a breath of salty air before shrugging and sighing. "I don't know, lad. But we're not here to answer questions like that, only to do our best. For our people back home. For our way of life. It's a fight we had to start because it's a fight we have to win."

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

Herman's voice was nary a whisper as he said those last words, the thought of a distant battlefield heavy on his mind. He promised himself he'd come back alive. He promised to witness the birth of a new society brought about by this new dust form. It was the world his father would have dreamed of.

Off in the distance, the lights of a civilian Mantlese schooner raced northwards to meet them. Its speed and agility in the water made their convoy look like a slog in comparison. Almost as soon as it appeared, it passed them; her deck hands waving the convoy on and slinging various good luck charms into the water. A shipmate held up a sign along the railing that read "Give 'em a fair Mantle fight!", which meant to trick the enemy into lowering their guard before pummeling them into the dirt. The soldiers on deck only had a few moments to get rowdy before an officer came out from the bridge to silence the menagerie of indiscipline.

"Just what the hell do you people think you're doing? Do you _want_ the Grimm to find this convoy? Maybe you'd all like to sleep at the bottom of the ocean? Shut the hell up!" He screamed, fixing his cover before surveying the scene. The sun has slipped below the horizon and the shattered moon was just making its appearance in the southeastern sky. Just in time. He bellowed orders to his subordinates on the bridge before turning to those still on deck.

"Charlie Company, report to the deck! Dog Company, to the mess! Easy Company, to your racks! Dismissed!"

The various soldiers on deck began to sling on their rucksacks and huddle around the bulkheads, easing their way inside the vessel. Sergeant Soleil gave a tap to Herman's arm with the back of his hand, motioning to the bulkhead with his head.

"That's us. Come on, let's get some sleep. Sanus will be in view by the morning. After that, who knows what'll happen?"

The private nodded, picking up his ruck from between his knees and slinging it over his shoulders, making sure his rifle was well secured in its straps. He tried making out the schooner among the ships of the convoy, but as rapidly as it had arrived, it passed the last naval transport and was on its way back to Solitas.

One day, he'll return too.


	4. Chapter 3: The Long March, Part I

Remnant: Stage of the Apocalypse

 **Chapter Three**

The Long March, Part I

Rising above the Vale Lowlands and running down the spine of the continent of Sanus was the Great Range, a series of mountains that served as Vale's majestic eastern warden. The mountain chain made for a readily defensible natural border, protecting the citizens of Vale from the creatures of Grimm and long-dead city-state rivals. Its dust reserves, paltry compared to the Great Waste of Vacuo or Boreal Badlands of Solitas, allowed industry to flourish. Even the annual snow melt from Mount Shezna and from the dormant volcano Mt. Invictus to the southeast brought abundant fresh water to the city. In time, some Valens even began worshiping the great mountains as bringers of life, safe haven, and prosperity.

Despite these blessings, the mountains themselves made the trek from Vale to Fort Castle, atop the highest peak in northern Sanus, all the more arduous, and the march downhill to the east coast – to the Zahara Peninsula and the Indigo Line – an exercise in courage and will. A corps of Vale's volunteer gendarmerie could cover twenty miles in a day, given flat ground and good roads. A corps of militiamen, twelve.

The Valen Fifth Guards covered fifteen miles of the mountain range in two weeks. A tenth of the pace they had made from their deployment from Vale's Royal Garrison to the western edge of the mountains. Almost three months had passed since the start of the war and the newly-formed unit had already successfully tested their mettle in the proving grounds in Vale. Now they made their way to meet the enemy. They were still a day's march from Fort Castle when they broke camp. The light of the morning sun blinded countless men against the fields of unbroken snow and mirror-like crags. A small, heavily worn staircase, nearly fully eroded into a sloping pathway, was all that kept the soldiers on even footing in the rugged terrain.

"Corporal Arc!" a voice shouted. It was the commander of Ember Company, Captain Miles, a rather reserved man for military service, but also a transfer from the First Guards, protectors of the king himself. Had it not been for the glint of his officer's insignia clasping his winter cloak over his uniform and scaled leather armor, Nicholas wouldn't have noticed him at all. He ran over and quickly rendered a salute.

"Yes, sir?"

"When you're finished packing your gear, I want you to accompany me at the front of the formation. You'll be our company's standard-bearer today. I think having a young man like you at the front of the unit will really inspire confidence when we arrive at Fort Castle."

"Yes, sir!" he said, saluting again and running off to return to his squad. The captain smiled, only slightly, before turning back to packing his own tent into its carrier for the final voyage to the summit.

"Inspire confidence? That's your line now?" said another man, coming over to the captain and laying a fully-packed rucksack at his feet. "And I thought I was hard on the boy."

"Well, lieutenant, that sword of his is going to be used in battle one day. Sometime soon, in fact. And I intend for him to use it to kill before someone else finds him first. All the more reason why he should hold our guide-on high, don't you think?"

Lieutenant Umber had eyes to match his name but skin to match their surroundings. If it weren't for the green wool of Valen uniforms and boiled leather of their armor, he'd blend right into the snow pack. Even his hair was a deathly shade of white too far gone for a man of his age. And yet he always managed to meld into the ranks of the company. Except, of course, when his presence was needed with the commander.

"The kid barely made it out of the proving grounds. Barely managed to secure a whetstone before we left the city. Gods damn it he even managed to get lost in B Company's march out of the gates. And you want the first thing the brigadier to see as we're cresting the ridge line is _him_?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "By the gods, we'll get thrown out and forced to sleep on the _other_ side of the mountain."

"Those were all early mistakes, lieutenant," Miles said. "He's still a schoolboy, after all. I'll teach him. He'll learn. Or he'll die."

The two officers watched as Corporal Arc struggled to fold his tent correctly into its cover, nearly breaking a stake in the process, before being assisted by one of the soldiers he was assigned to lead. Lieutenant Umber looked over at the captain and shook his head. "He keeps that up, we're all going to die. Sooner rather than later."

Miles sighed, continuing to pack his rucksack before launching it above his head and onto his back. A single fluid motion to save time and energy. And one that he never succeeded at in the officers' academy, always managing to knock himself to the ground or hit himself in the head while fully loaded. He walked until he was several paces above the last tent in the camp before cupping his hands to his face, surveying the soldiers beneath him.

"Ember Company, form it up! We're peaking this mountain today. By nightfall you'll all have bellies full of warm food, a cot of your own, and a hot, well-deserved bath. Actually, as you were. A well-needed bath!"

The men laughed. Even Lieutenant Umber, painfully cynical at times, managed a smile. As the last men put on their rucksacks, he saw Corporal Arc running up the incline, briefly stopping to salute once more before taking the company flag from the sergeant-of-the-colors. They began their fifteenth day of ascent up the mountain. Nicholas never left the captain's side, keeping the standard erect and away from his body as they went.

"So, corporal, I have a habit of needing to know how my subordinates are doing," the captain said. "Are you finding it difficult to lead the men you've been charged with?"

"Oh, no sir. Not at all! I, uh, I like it. Leading them, I mean. I like them," he said, nervously laughing and trying not to sound too unprofessional in front of the commander.

"And the conditions? Have those of us in command given you the resources to succeed?"

They kept a steady distance from the mass of the formation, with the lieutenant bringing up the rear. Even two hundred men behind them, Nicholas could still make out his voice.

"Truthfully, sir? I thought it was hard in the beginning. I didn't want to be training at all. All I wanted was to go back to school – back to my brother and our friends, but now," he said, trailing off.

His voice cracked in just the tiniest fraction of an octave and he stifled watery eyes by blinking, rather profusely, but entirely understandable to his captain. It was the hardest life adjustment he'd have to adjust to, being ripped away from his house and home and told to fight in a war he didn't start, but one which the sterling officer had full faith and confidence in his ability to overcome. Millions of Vale's young men had done so throughout history – no doubt many millions more would continue to do so in this war alone – Arc was no special case.

"I'm glad," the young corporal said, breaking the moment of silence he had started. "I'm glad that Lieutenant Umber kept pushing me harder. And I'm glad that you keep encouraging me, sir. I don't think I could've handled being a soldier without you two there guiding me or, rather, guiding us, every step of the way."

"It's what good officers do, corporal," the captain said. "There are those who push their soldiers harder and harder to the point of breaking but never put in any effort themselves; those who bark orders but don't listen; those who've taken the rank of an officer but never lived the life of a soldier. Trust and loyalty are a two-way street, Arc. You'll learn that soon enough with your men. Guide them well and treat them fairly and they'll follow you to every corner of Remnant. Howl at them and order them to do something you'd never do yourself? You'll be lucky to get strapped on the next wagon-train back to Vale."

Nicholas nodded his head in agreement. Looking behind him, he couldn't find his squad amid the sprawling green and brown mass that was Ember Company, but he swore he'd do right by them. If they could just hold out a little while longer until they pass the mountain range, then maybe this counterattack could end the war. Maybe he _would_ be back in Vale for graduation next year. They just had to retake the Indigo Line and force the Mistralians back to their settlements on the islands off the coast. Everything would be fine if things went according to plan.

He smiled and looked up toward the clear, peaceful sky. The winding staircase zig-zagged and cut through the mountain and led them on high, where the apex of one ridge led to the discovery of an even steeper slope behind it, bending ever upwards as if to challenge their resolve to summit the peak.

The corporal's breath grew heavy. Even the lieutenant had stopped barking orders at the men in their ranks as the steady beat of labored breathing accompanied them like a mocking melody. But to Nicholas's surprise, the captain kept his pace, as if unburdened by the low oxygen or the weight of their gear. His face betrayed nothing. Even the snow spoke to his steadfast resolve. Looking behind him, when the snow broke where others had stumbled or lost their footing, the captain's footsteps followed a familiar pattern. Left, right, left, right, left. An unbroken chain made by an unbroken man.

Just as the sun began its quick descent in the winter sky, exchanging the bright blue of the day for the reds and oranges of the twilight, Ember company crested its last ridge. The path suddenly leveled out and they came upon two massive pillars of ice dust crystals, dozens of feet tall, jutting out from the mountain abutting either side of the walkway to the fort. A wood sign, forgotten and weathered, hung from a chain between the twin pillars. An ancient language was scratched into the wood, made of beautiful and cryptic cursive letters, dots, and other symbols, though these themselves were defaced by black paint, written in their own language, a message meant for them:

"Fort Castle – First Stop on Vale's Frontier"

Captain Miles turned to Nicholas and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "You studied in one of the academies in Vale, corporal, is that correct?" he asked, pointing at the sign.

"Yes sir?"

"Have any idea what that says, underneath the paint?"

"I wouldn't know, sir. I'm – I _was_ a student at Portsmouth Academy. For the arts," he said, sheepishly. If the captain was wondering why he had had such a hard time climbing the mountain, he wouldn't have to wonder now.

"That's good, Arc," he said, continuing to stare at the sign. "When this war is over, men like me – we'll return to our forts and our garrisons, but the world won't _need_ us. We'll need men to figure out what the hell that says." He paused, slightly increasing the pressure on Nicholas's shoulder. "And men like you to inspire them."

They stayed that way for the briefest moment before a man came panting up to them, stopping a few feet shy. Bowling over, he placed his hands on his knees before standing up, still trying to catch his breath. It was Lieutenant Umber.

"Sir? If we don't make it to the fort within the hour, we'll have to set up camp. We'll lose the last light if we-". The captain cut him off, pointing to the sign above. It was the first time Corporal Arc had seen the lieutenant smile sincerely. He caught himself quickly, surveying the landscape. The sign was there, but Fort Castle was supposed to be the largest fortification in Valen territory. Nothing but snow and stone greeted them behind the pillars. "Sir? There's no fort."

"Look again, lieutenant," the captain said, beckoning him over with his free arm. The officers walked through the pillars and forward a dozen or so paces beyond that, revealing a bowl cut into the peak of the mountain. What had appeared to be a peak further away was, upon closer inspection, a tower of immense proportion and width, with several small slits cut into its side. Fort Castle hadn't any need for massive earthworks or palisades found in other frontier posts: the mountain provided all the construction material and defense the garrison needed. Its sheer scope, easily the size of a large coastal village, was all the more made obvious by the several large formations of green-and-brown blots assembling in the central grounds. Three regiments could assemble at once in the courtyard and still have room to spare.

"By the gods."

"It's certainly a sight, isn't it, lieutenant? I was stationed here during my first term, back when I was a young corporal, just like Arc over there. I was with the Second Guards, but it's also home to the 99th Engineering Battalion. The friendliest group of soldiers you'll ever meet – and this post's home unit."

"They stationed an entire battalion of engineers on a remote mountaintop?" Corporal Arc hadn't meant to ask the question aloud. In fact, had it just been the lieutenant, he might have been reprimanded for 'questioning military authority'. The captain, though, simply laughed.

"Well, you can't build an 'invincible fortress' without them, now can you? Lieutenant, head back to the rear and make sure the men know that this is the final hurdle before the fort. We've still got about half a mile of rugged ground to cover before we're at the western gatehouse. And Corporal Arc?"

"Yes sir!"

"When the gate opens, I want you to dip the standard in honor of our receiving commander. He's a brigadier now, but I think you'll find he still acts like he's a lowly Lance Corporal."

The formation began to move again, grudgingly, along the now-downward slope toward the gates of the fort. The ground here was much gentler, though somehow, slicker beneath the crunch of accumulated snow. Almost sensing the impending question about the difficulty of maneuvering the last half-mile, the captain answered Nicholas before he had a chance to form the thought.

"When they ran out of room on the peak to expand the fort, they began digging into the mountainside. Sometimes they'd cap it with domes made out of the resulting excavation material. That's what we're walking on now. Mind your footing."

Toward the end of the slope, there was a flattened wood platform, entirely deiced. A chain fence along its rim the only thing keeping a clumsy soldier between safety and certain oblivion. Nicholas told himself he wouldn't look down. The platform, nearly a hundred feet long, brought them to an arched wooden gate studded with steel rods and bolts. A single, simple knocker – an iron rod hanging from a chain, really – sat next to a lonely, hinged window on one of the doors. The captain grabbed it with both hands and swung. Hard. The cracks echoed across the Great Range, reverberating against the lesser, smaller mountains along the way. Squinting hard, Nicholas could just barely make out the coast.

 _I wonder where Emmanuel is now?Did the war find him, too? Or is he still in school?_

The hinged window came open and Nicholas saw a soldier – almost comically small – peering at them through exceedingly thick glasses.

"Well, Corporal Miles!" the soldier on the other side exclaimed. "It's so good to see you!"

"It's captain now, actually."

"Ah, so you made the switch to the dark side, did you? Well, that's a shame, though one the commander will be glad to hear. We've been expecting a unit to come through here to the east but we never expected you. Hold on just a moment, I'll get help to get these doors open for you."

Miles laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as he did. Nicholas raised an eyebrow.

"I may have made a name for myself when I was your age and rank with some of the," he said, clearing his throat. _Ahem. Ahem._ "Wilder engineers."

Gigantic tumblers began to turn and the gates to the fort parted, ever so slowly, indicating their gargantuan size. Nicholas figured he could stand broadside against the inside face of the gate and still have space for another man on either shoulder. Before them stood a delegation of the local garrison, bearing the standard forest green wool of the citizens' militia but without the boiled leather armor, instead wearing the indicative red and white cloak of the engineering profession, attached to their uniforms with dulled bronze broaches in the form of a castle. The military engineers.

To the left was the absurdly short soldier Nicholas had seen through the window, his face obscured by the fact that his helmet kept sliding down, obviously several sizes too large for the man. On the right, a woman of extraordinary beauty. She had a shapely figure with golden skin and the fairest hair the young man had ever seen. Even short-cropped and shoulder length, it was still light and airy enough to flow with the slightest breeze. Though her eyes were obscured by sunglasses, he couldn't help but feel she was staring intently at him. Assessing him.

And between both of them stood a beast of a man. Several feet taller than the captain and with a beard as thick as the mountain itself. He appeared to Nicholas as though, if he were made of iron, somehow he would be made lesser. And his eyes, were they _amber_?

"Corporal Miles, my old friend!" He boomed, reaching out with both hands and lifting the commander off the ground in a vice grip of a bear hug.

Visibly struggling, the commander managed to eke out the faintest reply. "Actually, it's captain now," he said, wheezing. "You can let me down, now."

Releasing his commander, Nicholas saw claws at the tips of the giant's fingers. A faunus? They were exceedingly rare in the port district in Vale, and always rather small and scruffy looking when they did show up. He'd no idea they could get so _large_.

Patting himself down, the commander fixed his cover and rendered a salute before turning to his younger subordinate. "Corporal Arc, attention! Present arms!" He raised his voice, properly intoning the commands before facing the giant faunus again. He was a different man, Nicholas noticed. Less of a mentor and more the student. His movements and commands crisp, dripping with consummate professionalism. This wasn't a man the captain wanted to disappoint.

"Brigadier Belladonna, it is with privilege and honor that the Fifth Guards seek permission to enter Fort Castle, for the purposes of resting and resupplying, and continuing our mission to the east!"

The brigadier saluted, allowing the captain to rest. With a smile he walked forward and placed a hand on the captain's shoulder, looking him square in the eyes. "Request granted, captain. Welcome home."


	5. Chapter 4: Signal to the West

Remnant: Stage of the Apocalypse

 **Chapter Four**

Signal to the West

Rosewood had been the first village to fall, if it mattered. Boxelder and Korina villages were hit at roughly the same time, but they had the good fortune of alternate escape routes. The first of the frontier militia had arrived a week later from the east, a trickle at first, and then a flood. As news spread of the Mistralian invasion – of entire battalions of their feared longbowmen, still on their ships, annihilating awaiting townsfolk on the shore – more and more people arrived in Greenleaf. A month ago, a wagon-train of settlers making it over the Great Range from the west would have been considered a burdensome number of people. Now all the traffic flowed from the east and makeshift encampments sprang up in the town square. The mayor, a glorified village chieftain, looked on from his office. His tea was getting cold.

"I don't like this, Ms. Lark. This is getting serious," he said, scratching his beard. He was a short and portly man, little taller than his desk. An unusual choice for mayor, to be sure. Out on the frontier, leaders were usually born out of skill in combat or sheer hardiness. Mayor Church, however, made his name as the most diligent merchant east of the mountain range. Nothing moved between villages or back to Vale without his services. For colonists from the capital, he _was_ the east. "The latest arrivals make two hundred today alone. And they're just stragglers from Korina and Boxelder!"

The woman in the corner of the room kept her pose, looking down at the floor and reaching into the pocket of her tattered and stained leather apron for chewing tobacco. "It'll get worse before it gets better, that's for sure," she said, right before stuffing a pinch into her mouth.

The daughter of colonists from Vale's initial push to the east over 25 years ago, Meadow Lark was the unofficial matriarch of her community. A _de facto_ deputy mayor. Unlike her parents, educated in the capital and yearning for a simpler life, she took pride in her upbringing in the untamed hills of the Zahara. She taught herself how to maintain swords and halberds from soldiers who would escort colonists through the mountain passes and how to forge and refine iron from the merchants who frequented Vale's industrial district. Over time, the girl born in the wilderness would become the first master blacksmith east of the Great Range, greatly depressing prices for tools and weapons. It pushed her and Mayor Church on a collision course.

" _A compromise: why don't you start a militia?_ " he had asked several years ago. " _Our community would be safer, you'd have demand for your weapons, and I can still sell tools from Vale._ "

She only agreed to the idea if she could take on the role of militia commander. Now, with a constant stream of dogged and defeated farmers from the east armed with nothing better than pickaxes and pitchforks, and a veritable deluge of civilian refugees from those same villages, she desperately regretted her decision-making.

"With today's arrivals, we've got nearly two thousand men and women officially registered with the city militia" she said.

"Such as they are," he cut in.

"According to my logbook, there are an additional three thousand we can seek out within a week's march of the town. Even more by horseback."

"From what they're saying out there in the square, there's that many Mistralian soldiers on the peninsula right now," the mayor lamented. He shook his head, collapsing into his chair. "At least Mantle isn't involved in this. It's bad enough that Mistral's Kite Garrison is on the mainland. The last thing we need is an entire army."

"Agreed."

"Do you have any idea _why_ they're invading? Maybe we can reason with them? Greenleaf is far enough from any contested territory. We're practically _neutral_. I mean, I just – I don't know what to do, Ms. Lark."

The mayor ruffled his hair, disturbing the comb-over that, at least partially, obscured the bald spot on his scalp. He took a sip of his tea and immediately spit it back into the mug. Entirely too cold.

"I've talked to some of the refugees who came from Korina. They said there was a riot near the border. One of our farmers went to tend to his sheep and found half of them filled with arrows. They figured the Mistralians must have killed them. He rounds up the town militia to confront the Kite Garrison and things exploded from there."

It wasn't _what_ Lark had said that had Mayor Church's mouth agape, gripping his desk in utter disbelief, but rather _how_. As brusque as the young woman was, an invasion was the least appropriate occasion for matter-of-fact cynicism.

"Are you telling me we're getting invaded over a gods damned _sheep_?"

"Well, I've got a guy from Boxelder who said it was a cow."

The mayor buried his face in his hands, utterly defeated. "I gave up a life in Vale for _this_?"

Meadow shrugged and spit a brownish-yellow gob onto the floor. The mayor looked up and shook his head but raised no objection. If the Mistralians were going to overtake Greenleaf, they could take the tobacco stains along with it.

"So what do we do?"

"I think I have a plan, actually," she said. Walking over to his desk, she cleared away the tea set and tchotchkes to reveal a regional map stretching from Fort Castle in the west to the Kite Islands and associated sea in the east. "Fort Castle's garrison is too far west to really be any help in the immediate future, but there are units from the Third Guards stationed in smaller forts along the eastern spur." She tapped a few points in the eastern foothills of the Great Range before taking a pen from his desk and marking their location. "If we shoot some dust flares, they ought to be here within a week. Same thing goes for the militia from surrounding towns and villages. Between the soldiers from the Third Guards and the surrounding militia, we can probably assemble a corps of twelve thousand before the Mistralians even reach the valley."

"And if they brought cavalry?"

"If they brought cavalry, they'd be here by now. This is probably our best shot at keeping them from advancing beyond the Indigo Line. It should buy us some time for reinforcements to get here from Fort Castle."

The mayor considered the plan. Dust flares could work – they'd be seen for dozens of miles – but making them required precious flame and lightning dust. With all the refugees coming in, even a small drop in supply could mean hundreds of people without heat or electricity.

"How much dust would you need from the warehouse?"

"Not much. If we mix in a small vial of ice and earth solut-"

"Absolutely not!" he said, forcefully. "Flame and lightning dust, I can ration. But when you and your men head east, you're going to need earth dust for medical ointment. _We're_ going to need ice to keep our food safe. I can't ration either without putting lives at risk!"

"And we'd be putting lives at risk by not getting help!" Lark shouted, slamming her palm so hard against the desk that the tea set on the floor shifted. She gave herself a few seconds to recompose, spitting another gob of tobacco on the floor, breathing in a forced, deliberate manner. "Normal dust flares burn out quick. They're like little explosions. The ice and earth dust help the mixture burn longer. Brighter. Keep them in the air. It's like the difference between a whisper and a scream, and we need to scream for help."

Reclining in his chair, the mayor slumped ever downward, lifting his head to stare at the ceiling. She was right. If the dust flares weren't noticed because of an improper mixture, the Mistralians would breach the Indigo Line without resistance and the town would be overrun. They'd make it to Fort Castle before Vale even knew about the invasion. And if they succeeded, he could at least send the militia away. It would be a short term solution, but with less mouths to feed, there would be less need for medicine and refrigeration. Meadow walked over to him and leaned in his field of view, her eyes meeting his straight downward.

"So?"

"Alright. Assemble the flares, but not before you've had the men prepare a defense for the town. Whatever happens east of here, I want Greenleaf prepared."

"You've got it, boss," she said, cheerfully. Now she was in business. Straightening out, she practically ran out of the mayor's office, dodging the huddled masses in the town plaza to seek out her militia captains.

"The stage has been set, I suppose," the mayor said. The empty room gave no reply. "This needs to work."

Dust came in many forms, but its most stable – and most naturally-occurring – was as a crystal. The properties were almost always essentially the same, but you could play around with formulae and forms to find a workable mixture that was more than the sum of its parts: the entire apothecary profession was founded on dust experimentation, after all. One of the perks of being both the militia commander and metallurgist of a town the size of Greenleaf, however, was being able to recognize dust configurations as second nature, which is exactly what Meadow Lark had set out to do when she opened the door to the Greenleaf's dust warehouse.

A six inch shard of flame dust, hollowed out and filled with electric dust _powder_ , for example, made the basic ingredients for a mining explosive. Hollow out that same flame dust shard and plug a fitted electric dust _crystal_ into the hole, and a rudimentary rocket could be produced. Dip that same configuration into a paste infused with ice and earth dust? Fireworks. More or less. Whatever the specific mechanics were behind the interactions was none of Meadow's business. What she was interested in was results, specifically, gaining the attention of the Fort Joy garrison of the Third Guards.

Filling a small pouch with several of the modified dust crystals, Meadow ran several blocks to her workshop, not too far from the center of town. She ripped an iron plate and tube from their perches on her merchandise wall before stepping outside. One of her local commanders looked on quizzically.

"I would have figured you'd be working overtime crafting weapons for the new arrivals right now."

"There's time for that," she said. "Here, make yourself useful and come hold this." She pointed at the iron tube, canted ever so slightly from vertical. She pulled her long, dark blue hair into a bun safely behind her head and faced him. "And you might not want to look directly at the thing either."

The commander obliged, holding the tube in place and turning his head to the side. He heard the soft clink of dust crystals rattle against each other right before the tell-tale _crack_ of dust agitation: usually a death sentence.

"Ma'am, you're not going to do what I think you-"

"God damned right I am," she interrupted, right before smacking a dust flare as hard as she could against the iron plate next to her. She dropped it in the tube and made sure to cover her eyes. This was going to be _bright_.

A pillar of fire shot out of the tube, bolstered in no small part from a tuft of lightning, which served to agitate the flame crystal even more. In the cloudless skies of late autumn, its power was apparent: it outshone the sun. Ever onward it went, ascending until at last it was safe to look up. Tilting their heads, they could see a small point of pure white surrounded by a halo before fading, slowly. It flickered at first and then disappeared completely, the daytime shroud of shadows coming back in its absence.

"I think it's safe to say someone saw that," her subordinate had said, dryly. "Next time, do you want to warn me before you set off _agitated dust_ while I'm in the blast radius?"

"I don't think there will be a next time. Look," she said. Standing, she stared to the distant foothills, pointing to other dust flares being set off. One, two, three from the west. Another to the south. Each one burning intensely before dying quickly, like motes of ember falling from a great fire. Meadow shook her head. They hadn't made any additives to their flares. Amateurs.

"Right, Virgil I need you to head to the south side of the city and tell the men to prepare a palisade. I'll head to the east. We'll need to build defenses for the town before reinforcements arrive."

"Yes, ma'am!"

The man took off, sprinting to the south, while Meadow herself stood facing the east, defiantly. Her men would have to build a perimeter wall and dig trenches while she did all she could to equip the refugees with whatever weapons she could turn out. They only had a week – before reinforcements from the west and the Mistralians flooded the valley to the east. Quality would suffer. No doubt morale would take a hit, as well. Even if they succeeded in stopping the enemy advance, they would still have to wait for reinforcements from Fort Castle to advance to the coast. And if winter came and set in while they were still on the peninsula? A large town like Greenleaf had more than enough food to go around, but the Zahara farming communes? She doubted the hamlets and villages along the coast could afford more than feeding themselves, let alone a corps of twelve thousand.

 _And when we meet the enemy_ , she thought, _five thousand men are going to see war for the first time. Five thousand young, panicked bodies in battle. The Grimm are going to skin the survivors alive. There has to be another way._ She clenched her teeth, reaching into her apron to find more tobacco. She was out.

"Damn."


	6. Chapter 5: The Long March, Part II

**A/N** : I don't like inserting author's notes as I feel they distract from the story, but for clarification purposes I'll make exceptions when I feel like it's warranted: this fanfic makes extensive use of anachronic order. Characters and certain plotlines may be removed from the active storyline for multiple chapters at a time and character arcs can and will run simultaneously.

Remnant: Stage of the Apocalypse

 **Chapter Five**

The Long March, Part II

It had been a week since they'd left Fort Castle and continued the long road to the east. The Second Guards, the fort's garrison, had fallen in with Ember Company and were now trailing the formation in a human chain several miles long, all of them following the narrow, winding path down the leeward side of the Great Range. Whereas the western edge featured semi-maintained stairways and trails, the approach to the Zahara Peninsula was little more than a mule path, cut into the face of the mountain over decades of use. The slope, at the very least, was gentler.

Corporal Arc took time to appreciate the lesser hardship on his body heading downhill, stretching his arms and back whenever he could. His muscles were still sore, both from the ascent up the mountain and from the work they'd put into "assisting" the engineers at the fort. Captain Miles and Brigadier Belladonna had had a rapport, serving in the Valen Guards on-and-off together for ten years, including three spent shoulder-to-shoulder in the same platoon at Fort Castle. Seeing his old military buddies for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the captain had been prepared to allow the men a night of merriment and diversion, hoping to retire to the brigadier's personal quarters for a round of whiskey from the island of Patch.

The looks the men gave to his old faunus comrades that night had changed his mind in a heartbeat. The enormous ballistas on Fort Castle's hidden ramparts and towers required ammunition – massive bolts of hardened steel tipped with agitated dust – that some breeds of faunus could lift as if carrying a standard-issue rucksack. It took an entire platoon of men just to lift one off the ground. The brigadier and the captain still had their whiskey, but their eyes swirled with intense emotion only made worse by the alcohol. The brigadier's with pity; the captain's with contempt.

Captain Miles had taken heart to Nicholas, however. The young corporal didn't express derision for the faunus so much as surprise – and in the case of Sergeant Scarlatina, the woman accompanying the brigadier's initial delegation, enchantment. His face rushed with blood when he thought of his abortive attempt to get her attention during evening chow. By the time their unit left the fort, the faunus of the 99th Engineering Battalion had come up with a nickname for the boy: Nervous Nick.

" _Give it another go when we come through here on the road home_ ," the captain had said. " _Women love war heroes, after all_." He'd allowed the sergeant-of-the-colors to take back the company standard, but from Nicholas's perspective, that didn't exactly help. Now, he was stuck in the middle of the formation with his men – a prospect he did not relish.

"Thinking about that menagerie of freaks again, corporal? I suppose when you haven't seen a woman since we left Vale anyone will do, right? Still, _I_ couldn't bring myself to bed an animal," a man said, slapping him on the back rather forcefully. The voice belonged to Sergeant Clair – an upperclassman from Portsmouth Academy who graduated at the same time as Nick and his friends were inducted. Sworn as Nick's superior by virtue of holding a diploma of letters. He couldn't do anything to rebuff the remarks. At least, not anything the man deserved.

"Sergeant, this conduct isn't appropriate in front of my men," he said in a lowly, rushed tone. "We can talk about this later."

"Whatever you say, _buddy_. If I see any deer on the way down the mountain, I'll send them your way."

He seethed in silence. Shadowing the commander on their initial climb, he'd seen how men – true men – conducted themselves. He'd have plenty of time to take out his anger later.

A wave went out through the chain, each man raising their fist in quick succession before stopping in their tracks. Another flare popped off many miles to the east, its arc concealed by the gorges and forests of the Zahara. Lingering in the heights of the sky before falling back to the surface, a shining halo accompanying the dying light.

"That's the third one today," Nicholas said. "I wonder who's shooting them off." Laying his gloved hand on the hilt on his sword, he began to wonder just what they'd face when they finally made it out of the foothills.

"They must be pretty desperate to be setting off so many of them," Private First Class Bruni observed. Corporal Arc's number two, the two boys had seen each other through combat training at the proving grounds and served as squad leader in Nicholas's absence. He was older than his superior but, as a matter of circumstance, was conscripted as a private. Leaders needed to know how to read. Having grown weary of the other soldiers in the squad after the Fort Castle fiasco, he didn't make it known to the corporal that, had he not gone and made an ass out of himself in front of the garrison, Bruni himself might have sought the attention of a certain rabbit faunus.

As the commander gave the order to proceed with the march, the lieutenant found his way to Arc's squad. Ever scanning for threats on either side of the column, he was the company's eyes and ears. He was always present, even when you didn't want him to be.

"Arc," he called out.

"Sir? Can I help you?"

"See that rock formation over there?" he said, pointing to a jagged cliff face to their left, its face weathered to into the rough outline of the face of a man. "Once we pass that we'll be within a day's march of Fort Joy. It marks the western boundary of the old demilitarized zone – and the Zahara. They don't take kindly to faunus there, get me?"

"I get you, sir," Nicholas said. Sergeant Clair's snide comments aside, he could feel the tension in the unit boiling ever since they left. He didn't need to hear what people said about him so much as judge the distance they gave between his squad and themselves. The feeling of dread that sweeps through a crowd right as disaster passes by was easy to discern. The feeling of hatred even easier.

"Watch yourself when we cross the border. It's a no-man's land out there," the lieutenant said before hurrying off to the front of the formation to find the captain. Easy enough advice to follow, at least as far as the enemy was concerned. The hard part was watching his back around his allies.

Ember Company found itself slowing to a crawl – the shallow valley giving way to the narrowest of gorges. There was barely space for one soldier to walk through unhindered by rocks jutting from the sheer walls and the occasional impure dust crystal. The sun, already low in the sky, dipped below the mountains to their west, blanketing the region in shadow, though traces of light still lingered in the evening sky. As much as he could, he hurried to make it to the front of the formation, finding the captain and lieutenant standing apart from the men, taking in the sight below them.

When they cleared the gorge, the terrain shifted, allowing a clear view of the Zahara for miles in all directions. It gave them a perfect vantage point to witness the carnage. Those who weren't already fixated on the sight were finding clear spots along the slope on which to stand. Nicholas made his way to the command, stopping a few paces short of the captain.

"My God," the lieutenant said, shaking his head.

"Well, at least we discovered the source of those flares," Captain Miles said, turning around and rather surprised to see Corporal Arc standing behind him. He nodded and gave a knowing glance. "Corporal."

"Sir," Nicholas said, walking to the precipice and standing alongside the two officers, taking it all in.

The scene below them was a hellscape. A line of fire raged across much of the distant horizon, including a concentrated mass that Nicholas could only assume was a small city. Two smaller fires burned to their left and right flanks, partially obscured by the forests. The smoke plumes followed the wind patterns, depositing their ashes to the east throughout the rest of the Zahara. A fine layer of white and gray had already began to obscure portions of the otherwise verdant greenery.

"Do you happen to have your map, corporal? I seem to have lost mine," the captain said. Nicholas saluted and threw off his rucksack, immediately pulling out a map of the area from one of its many pockets. The captain studied it intensely, looking back and forth between it and the fires.

"Looks like that city down there is called Greenleaf. Though according to this it shouldn't be more than a typical border town."

"It's the first settlement past the Indigo Line, sir. Prime target for an invasion," the lieutenant said, looking over the captain's shoulder. He pointed to the smaller fires to the north and south. Taking a compass from his belt and lining it up with the smoke plumes, he roughly traced an outline on the map with his finger. "It looks like Forts Canarsie and Rainbow have fallen as well. But," he paused. Tracing another line on the map and consulting his compass, he put on one of his rare smiles, "Fort Joy is still standing."

The captain turned around and surveyed the unit. Most of his men, to say nothing of the Second Guards, were still in the gorge. They'd already exceeded their last light. The Mistralians were notorious for the accuracy of their archers: an entire regiment of soldiers with torches would end in a bloodbath. He was fine with the thought of them dying here on this mountain, fighting to the last man, but he wasn't going to send them into a death trap. Not one man in Ember Company would die in vain. His lieutenant seemed to sense this in him. He knew his commander well.

"What about this village here, sir? Alnus. If we cut immediately north from here we can have most of the men in a perimeter within the hour. It looks like it has a sight line to the valley, as well."

Nicholas perked his head up. Alnus. His mother had told him she'd brought each of her children over the mountain range when they were born and baptized them in the name of the old gods there. In the ancient, healing springs. It was where the village where she was born. Where she met his father. Where she'd sent his body – what was left of it – after the Grimm had struck his lumber yard.

"Sir, I'm familiar with Alnus," he said. Neither officer was quite sure exactly who he was addressing, though the lieutenant had the courtesy to step back. "Its spring waters are said to bring good luck. I've been there once before."

"Have you now? Well, I'd consider that a sign of good luck, wouldn't you say so, lieutenant?"

Lieutenant Umber said nothing. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back in classic military standard.

"Form up and follow me!" he called. "We're heading north. Follow the soldier in front of you and you won't get lost!"

The captain handed the map back to Nicholas before marching off, the lieutenant on his heels. Corporal Arc looked around for his men before Private Bruni came up, draping an arm around him.

"Don't worry, they're all accounted for. Five assigned, five present. That bottleneck is a bit more troublesome than I'd like, but they're following Sergeant Hind's platoon for now."

He nodded before turning his head to take mental stock of the display down below. A veritable portal into another world, something dark and remarkable. He saw another explosion off in the distance, a dull _thwack_ following in its wake, buffered against the foothills. It wasn't imaginable and yet entirely tangible. If he breathed in deeply, he could feel it in his senses – all of them. Suffering.

With a slight yank from his subordinate, he turned and followed the man in front of him. Alnus wasn't far from their current position. And thankfully, the thick shrubbery hid them, both from the enemy's view and from the burning landscape. The chaparral hiding whatever lurked below. He wasn't able to take his mind off the burning city, not entirely, but he did begin to wonder just what Alnus looked like. How would such a small community accommodate two regiments of men coming down upon them? It was easy to forget the size of the Fifth Guards, especially with Ember Company leading the way, but it would matter in the battle ahead. Strength in numbers. Strength in swordsmanship. Strength of will. This was their land. Their people. Only they, the defenders of the people, could restore this land to peace.

Nicholas didn't have time to dwell on the implications of what, exactly, that peace would look like. The village gate – a structure half as tall as it was long – protruded into the sky. Two candles burned atop its twin peaks, themselves covered in the dried wax of dozens of years of eternal flames. As he'd expected, the village was infinitely small, barely large enough to house a company, let alone a regiment or two. They'd have to set up tents again.

He saw a woman with hair that stretched down to the small of her back walk up to the commander. Her dress plain, she knelt in genuflection to the captain, outstretching her hands in a form of prayer. He saw in her face the pained, twisted emotions crossing between trauma and relief. Nicholas left Bruni's side to walk over, catching scattered remnants of their conversation on the wind, barely heard over the din of his fellow soldiers lingering and waiting for the official command to set up camp.

"...won't take no for an answer. Please, surely the Lord has sent you. Allow us to entertain the disciple of His will and mercy."

"I apologize ma'am but, as you can see," the captain said, gesturing to the hundreds of men at the entrance to the village and the hundreds more trickling in from the pass, "I've got my hands full at the moment."

"What about Corporal Arc, sir?" said Lieutenant Umber, motioning his head in Nicholas's direction.

He froze. How did the lieutenant know he was close by? And, for that matter, why had he taken so much attention to him recently? A dutiful and diligent superior was one thing, but for the young corporal, being the bright star in the officer's sky wasn't exactly a good thing. At least, consistently.

"That actually sounds quite amenable, lieutenant," Miles said. "Corporal?"

"Yes sir!"

He hadn't even need to look at Nicholas to get his attention. The captain's eyes, still fixated on the woman in front of him, had found a way to pierce him straight to his soul.

"I'm assigning you to be our ambassador to the locals tonight. Have your second-in-command to take charge of your men until your return, but stay as long as requested. It's only fitting that our hosts should have a fine, young leader in their midst; and more importantly, family."

The captain beckoned for the woman to stand before closing the distance between him and the corporal. They exchanged salutes before the officer leaned into his side, bringing himself to his ear.

"And remember, there may not be a Sergeant Scarlatina here, but you're still a hero to these people – your people," he whispered. "Represent us proudly, Corporal Arc. Dismissed!"

The young man turned on his heel, something he hadn't done since the proving grounds, following the woman into the town's solitary bar. A thin, woven mattress in the corner by the entrance also told him that it served as its inn. A postbox, or what was left of it, had been built into the wall opposite the door. Such multiplicity and character wasn't unheard of in common areas of remote villages. They were, after all, the central gathering points for the families that ventured far into the hinterlands, away from the great cities of the coast, themselves at once too crowded and pining for simplicity.

It was only natural, then, that this gathering place also serve as the village hall. A middle-aged man shot up almost immediately to greet him, but that wasn't who Nicholas was focused on. A younger, more libertine woman sat in the corner, swirling a drink. Her hair a deep, engulfing black that contrasted heavily with her sharp, ocher eyes. She spoke her own language in this place. Nicholas found himself walking toward her, only half realizing he walked past the man who came up to greet him as he sat down next to her. With barely any force at all, he took the drink from her hand and found himself knocking it down, setting the glass on the bar and tipping it back to the bartender.

"Guess I'll have to buy you another drink," he said. He couldn't feel his face yet a smile escaped him all the same.

"Oh?" she asked. "And who might you be, soldier?"

"Corporal Arc, Valen Fifth Guards. And you?"

She extended a hand, gladly taking back her drink with the other when the bartender came to slide it over to her. She sipped her drink, allowing the light of the fireplace to dance around in the glass and, ever so subtly, gave prominence to her eyes. They shared the same color with the alcohol.

"The name's Marlene."


End file.
